


MGMT

by karanguni



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Prequel, Yuleporn, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21951844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/pseuds/karanguni
Summary: 'What you need, kid,' Marcus informs John as he straps the hotheaded idiot into his passenger seat, 'is a god damned intervention.'
Relationships: John Wick/Winston
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	MGMT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corvidology](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! :D
> 
> This is set before the movies.

The thing about being a sniper is this: sometimes you have to walk a long fucking way to get to the scene of your crime. Marcus gets his equipment packed, abandons his position, and gets into his car. It's easier to drive than walk the length of a distance shot. In this line of work, only idiots with delusions of grandeur do more work than they have to.

Marcus parks his car around the block, then walks the rest of the way. It's autumn and getting cold. He tucks gloved hands into the pockets of his coat as his boots crunch over broken glass and the general debris of a close-range melee's aftermath. Marcus stops next to the only body in a twenty metre radius that's still breathing.

'What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?' he asks John Wick, who is laying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

John grunts. He looks like he's in a lot of pain. Good. Maybe he'll learn his lesson this time, unlike every other time.

Marcus kicks crap out of the way and kneels down on one leg next to John's face. 'Do you remember why you asked me to teach you shit, John?' 

John's eyes flicker up towards him. He grunts again.

Marcus, an elbow propped on his bent knee, says, 'It was because you're good at killing people but dogshit at logistics. Who amongst us is good at logistics, John? Snipers. People like me. Why? Because we don't run in –' Marcus brushes glass off of John's back '– and start shooting people in the face first and asking questions like "how the _fuck_ am I going to get out of here in one piece?" later. Sound familiar?'

Another grunt. Cheeky bastard.

Marcus grabs John by the shoulders of his suit and hauls the man upright. 'It's hard to tell whether you're gifted or suicidal, did you know that?' he asks, rhetorical. Their relationship is all about him asking John questions that John will think about but won't answer. The man's bleeding from more places than Marcus can count, and probably has one or two broken bones. So much for this trenchcoat. He slings one of John's arms over his shoulders and limps him to the car.

'What you need, kid,' Marcus informs John as he straps the hotheaded idiot into his passenger seat, 'is a god damned intervention.'

* * *

'Welcome to the Continental,' Charon says as Marcus half-supports, half-drags John's near-corpse to the hotel's concierge desk. 'The Doctor is available in his office.'

'He'd better be,' Marcus agrees.

A bit of minor-major surgery later and the Doctor comes out to where Marcus is cooling his heels in the waiting room.

'He'll live,' the Doctor sighs, pushing his small round glasses up over his forehead. 'What are you teaching him, Marcus?'

'Nothing, by the looks of it,' Marcus shrugs. 'Kid's hotheaded, what can I say. What's the butcher's bill?'

'Two broken ribs, broken left arm, the list is too long. He's going to need some downtime,' the Doctor warns. 'Any more pushing the way he likes to push and the only thing Mr. Wick will be pushing is daisies.'

'Thanks, doc,' Marcus says, flicking open a lighter and starting a cigarette. He takes a deep inhale and exhales in the Doctor's face when the man raises an eyebrow at him. 'What?'

The Doctor waves a hand in the air to clear the smoke. 'You're a sniper,' he says. 'People like you actually have career expectancies in double digits. Do yourself a favour and –'

Marcus blows more smoke in his face. 'I drink smoothies,' he says, smiling like a shark. 'With green shit in them. Can I see him now?'

'Mr. Wick is just waking up,' the Doctor says.

There's a crash that sounds very much like surgical steel equipment getting toppled over.

The Doctor winces.

Marcus nods, flicking his cigarette onto the marble floor. 'That'll be him now.'

* * *

When John wakes up – properly, this time, instead of in a frenzy from fighting off his sedatives – he's immediately aware he's not alone in the room. He blinks his eyes open but does not react.

Marcus is standing braced against the corner of two walls on one side of the room. Directly in front of his bed is an older gentleman seated in an ornate chair.

'Ah, Mr. Wick,' the gentleman says. 'Glad to have you with us once more.'

John watches Marcus push himself upright. 'Hey, kid. How you feeling?'

John thinks about it: how his body feels sluggish and broken, how his bones ache, how his flesh screams. Pain is his foundation.

'All right,' he says. He flicks his eyes at the older man.

'You should recognise him,' Marcus says. 'But I'm sure you don't, because you don't give a rats ass about politics. John, this is Winston, owner of the Continental. Winston, this is John Wick.'

'Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Wick,' Winston says to him. John nods, wary. 'The Continental looks forward to having you for the duration of your stay.'

'My stay?' John doesn't know what he's talking about.

'Yes, your stay,' Winston repeats, eyebrows raised. 'After all, you aren't going anywhere with those injuries. You'll just be an albatross around Marcus' neck, and that does no one any good.'

Winston's delivery impeccably polite. It makes John wince. He looks over at Marcus. 'Sorry.'

'Told you, kid,' Marcus says grimly. 'You need an intervention. This is it. Don't even try to get on a contract before the Doc declares you ready.' He points at Winston. 'And listen to this one, you hear me?'

John looks at Winston, then back at Marcus. 'Sure.'

'He's your problem now,' Marcus says to Winston, as if John's not there. 'Try to teach him something.'

'I live to serve,' Winston tells Marcus, but he manages to make it sound mocking. Marcus leaves without saying anything else.

John has no idea what the hell is going on.

'Now, Mr. Wick,' Winston says, dragging John's attention back to him. 'What do you know about management?'

* * *

John knows nothing about management. He knows nothing about the things Winston spends the next few days educating him about.

'You're bedridden, Mr. Wick,' Winston says when he comes into John's room one morning with a stack of leather-bound books. 'Perhaps you could spend the time on self-improvement. Reading, for example.' He sets the volumes down on John's bed and cocks his head to one side. 'You _can_ read?'

John levels him with a _look_. 'Yes.'

'Good, I'd wondered,' Winston says, clearly amused. 'So the problem with you is comprehension and not literacy.'

John opens his mouth, then opts to say nothing. He pulls one of the books onto his lap with his good arm, even though that hand is swathed in bandages. He opens the heavy cover. 'Heraldry,' he reads.

'I see you weren't lying, Mr. Wick,' Winston feigns surprise. 'You _can_ read.'

John looks up at him. Winston stares him down. John has to look back down and turn the page. 'The Lineages of all known Families,' he recites.

'Very good.' Winston stands. 'Now keep going. We'll see how much of it you retain when you finish.'

He leaves.

John flips through the next few pages. Written on the hand-inked pages are the histories, symbologies, genealogies, and political alignments of all the – as stated – known Families of their world.

John sighs. He starts to read.

* * *

After a week, he's ambulatory. It's enough for John to get into his suit and accompany Winston down to the bar the first evening he's not exhausted by walking the length of the floor his room is on.

Winston settles them in a corner table.

'Something to drink, Mr. Wick?' he asks, crossing his legs and watching the ebb and flow of people coming and going.

'No thanks,' he says, because John thinks there is something to learn here, if he knew how. He wants to stay alert, tonight.

'Someone just ordered a drink from the bar,' Winston says conversationally. 'Did you see who it was?'

The bar. John turns to look.

'Too late, Mr. Wick,' Winston chides, sing-song. 'Pay closer attention next time.'

John pays closer attention as they sit and watch. Winston drinks. He watches.

'D'Chimay just exchanged a coin with Ando in the second booth from the back wall,' John murmurs to Winston when he sees.

'And that is significant because?'

John thinks. He takes too long.

Winston sighs. 'What's the muzzle velocity of a Glock 17C, Mr. Wick?'

'375 metres per second,' John replies automatically.

'See?' Winston swirls his lowball; whiskey and ice clink gently in the glass. 'You're not _incapable,_ just disinterested, it seems.'

The comment stings.

'Try again, Mr. Wick,' Winston says, and gestures around the room.

Over the next few hours, John observes a good number of subtle interactions, but analysis of what they mean is beyond him. It is only at the end of the night, when Winston decides to throw him a bone, that John _sees_ for the first time the way shots are fired long before a finger is ever put on a trigger.

'D'Chimay and Ando represent two corporations that have been locked in a bidding war over a corporate contract for over sixteen months,' Winston explains, looking beleaguered at John's slowness. It is not something John is used to seeing from his mentors. 'Recently, a third party has entered the scene. What do you think a coin exchanged in this context represents?'

John traces the back of his teeth with his tongue. 'They want the third party out.'

'Better the devil you know,' Winston agrees. 'It also represents business conducted on Continental grounds.'

'Ah,' John says.

'Yes,' Winston says. He draws out his words. '"Ah."'

'Want me to do something about it?' John offers.

Winston turns to look him up and down. 'In your state, Mr. Wick, I doubt your capacity to do _anything._ '

John has to use his elbow on the table to lever himself up, but he gets up. 'Maybe I'll surprise you.'

* * *

'Management,' John says to himself in the mirrored doors of the elevator as he rides it up to the floor Ando is staying on. He adjust the awkward fall of his suit jacket over his arm sling. 'Got to be better at management.'

The elevator pings open.

John pushes the cart he has with him down the corridor. He presses the bell at Ando's door. 'Room service,' he calls.

The door opens. 'I didn't order room service,' Ando says, looking him up and down.

John uses his good off-hand to pick up the metal cloche covering the plate on the cart and toss it aside. There's a Glock sitting on the china plate. 'No business on Continental Grounds,' he says.

Even with his off-hand, John is a faster draw.

375 m/s at close range means Ando dies nearly instantaneously.

John pushes him back into the room by rolling the cart into the body. The door clicks neatly shut.

John walks the single floor down to where D'Chimay's room is. The steps are good physical therapy.

He rings the bell. 'Housekeeping,' John calls.

The door opens. D'Chimay looks him up and down. John says, 'There is a problem with this floor, sir. I have been sent to make sure nothing is wrong with your room.'

D'Chimay frowns. John sighs, because the management idea might have worked the first time, but it is clearly not going to work _every_ time. He draws the Glock. 'No business on Continental grounds–'

D'Chimay rolls back and draws his own weapon.

* * *

John is bleeding from his stitches and knows he has done something bad to his broken arm by the time he calls actual housekeeping to D'Chimay's room. He limps back to his own room to clean up.

Winston is waiting for him, once again seated and once again with a glass of something strong in hand.

'I'm surprised you haven't driven Marcus to drink,' he says.

'I have,' John grunts, closing the door behind him. 'He drinks green smoothies.' He struggles out of his bloodied jacket and drops it on the bed. 'What are you doing here?'

'Ando was well done,' Winston says, ignoring his question. He sips his drink and watches John struggle. 'D'Chimay, less so. But you display the capacity to learn, at least – so yes, Mr. Wick, congratulations. You _did_ surprise me.'

John pauses in the middle of struggling to undo his shirt buttons one-handed. 'Did you think I couldn't?'

'I think another few years going at the rate you'd been charging along at and you'd have ended up dead,' Winston says, the shot delivered point-blank. 'Now, maybe you have the chance to be something brilliant, Mr. Wick.'

John watches Winston stand and come over to him. Winston raises his drink and presses the cold glass against John's right cheekbone, where a bruise is slowly blossoming. John shudders at the sensation.

'Drink this,' Winston says, putting the glass into John's free hand. 'It'll make you feel better.'

John takes a large sip of the drink. His throat works as he swallows. His breath hitches when Winston, now with both hands free, unbuttons his shirt. He starts from the bottom and works up until he gets to John's tie.

Winston slips a finger under the knot. John can feel his pulse thundering, and doesn't doubt Winston can someone feel it too. 'Mr. Wick,' Winston says as he gently undoes the knot. He pushes John's chin up and he slides the tail of the tie out, and John lets him.

'Yes?'

'Marcus speaks very highly of you, and I value his opinion quite highly; I trained him, you know, once upon a time. I want to see what you become,' Winston tells him, putting his undone tie aside and undoing the button of John's collar. 'What you are capable of becoming, when you expand your horizons. So do your best not to end up as just another mess to clean up, yes?'

John nods. Winston has the thumb of one hand pressed up against his adam's apple, and it presses into John's throat.

Winston's eyes are bright. 'Would you like to expand some other horizons at this point?'

John is hard, and has been hard since Winston first touched him. He swallows again. 'Will I learn something?' he asks.

Winston drops his hands and undoes John's belt. 'Oh, Jonathan,' the old man says, coy. 'I think it is very likely you will.'

John closes his eyes. He rarely has sex: there never seems to be a point. But there is something about the way Winston looks at him that makes John feel a weight of expectation that makes the world come into sharp, sharp focus. It is like looking through the scope of a gun while remaining in heightened awareness of his surroundings. Winston is making him _see_ , and not just in tunnel vision.

'All right,' John says.

Winston puts his hand on John's cock and slowly, so slowly, starts to jerk him off. John's fist on his injured arm reflexively closes down on nothing. He can't let go of the glass that is in his free hand; John feels the vertices of the octagonal glass dig into his fingers and palm.

When he closes his eyes, Winston says, 'Keep looking at me, Jonathan.'

John forces his eyes back open. Winston watches him the whole time it takes for John to get close to orgasm; John, feeling flayed alive, can't look away. He comes into Winston's hand with a short, sharp intake of breath.

Winston's chuckle is a low reverberation that runs itself down John's spine. John realises his eyes are shut only when he feels Winston wipe his hand on his open shirt.

'Get cleaned up and go to bed, Jonathan,' Winston says, stepping back. John looks at him, breathing hard. Winston can read the question in his eyes and answers it. 'Your lessons continue tomorrow.'


End file.
